Dream a Little Dream
by Lanu Tavol
Summary: A case of apparent suicide prompts Hastings to consider his relationship with Poirot. WARNING: Contains mention of child abuse.
1. Chapter 1

I was dreaming.

I don't know if one can really call it that.

I was having a nightmare.

There, that's better.

I was having a nightmare.

As a child I always slept soundly; I could sleep through anything. My mother always said it was a sign of my sweet and honest nature. Perhaps she was right; I certainly don't remember any nightmares.

I had my first nightmare on the 24th of December 1914. They said the war would be over by Christmas and there was I on Christmas Eve having a nightmare in the middle of a trench. I was living the nightmare then.

I was injured and the nightmares kept on; I went to Styles and the nightmares kept on; I returned to duty and the nightmares kept on; the war ended and I was discharged and the nightmares kept on.

The nightmares haven't stopped. Every night since that first night I have dreamt such dreams as only a soldier can.

I threw the covers back and sat up then tossed on a dressing-gown and padded through to the kitchen for a glass of water. As I reached the kitchen I found Poirot waiting. He offered me a cool glass.

"Thank you," I said with a faint smile.

"You are most welcome, Hastings. I only wish that you did not have to go through such things."

I shrugged my shoulders. "A war wound I suppose. _I_ only wish that _you_ didn't have to go through this. I am sorry at waking you."

He put his hand on my arm. "Do not worry, _mon ami_. If I can help, I will do so gladly." He smiled up at me. "And now, Hastings, you shall return to bed. Sleep is good for the little grey cells."

'The little grey cells' were one of his favourite topics. "I'm sure you're right."

"Of course I am," he said matter-of-factly.

We walked back into the hall. "Sleep well, Poirot," I said, heading for my room.

"And you, my friend."

We both went to our rooms.

I sat on the edge of the bed and drank my water.

I hate to wake Poirot, but he tells me he is a very light sleeper. When I wake he is always there. I don't think either of us has slept the night through since we moved in together.

Perhaps some time away might be good for us.

Yes, that will do nicely.

I laid back down and slept through until dawn.

* * *

><p>My plans for a holiday were going to have to be put on hold. We had a case.<p>

"A most interesting case, this one, Hastings."

"Oh, really?" I said, sitting down across from Poirot at his writing table.

"Indeed. We have a letter from a young woman whose uncle has died."

I looked across expectantly.

He didn't disappoint. "The police think it was suicide, but the young woman believes otherwise and so she has sent for us."

"What are the details?"

"The uncle, James Burnet, was found alone in his study. The door was locked and the key was on the inside. M. Burnet was killed by a single gunshot to the head. The gun was found lying near his hand."

"It certainly sounds like suicide."

Poirot nodded. "At first glance, yes, but Mlle Burnet does not agree. She has asked that we join her in Northumbria as soon as is convenient."

"And shall we?"

"It is an interesting case."

"One worthy of the great Hercule Poirot?" I asked, laughing.

He smiled. "Perhaps, _mon ami_, perhaps."

* * *

><p>We arrived in Northumbria that afternoon and proceeded directly to the village of Ailsworth. After checking-in to a local hotel, we asked directions to the house of Miss Burnet.<p>

The door was opened by a young woman of twenty or so. She was a sweet looking girl with an air of distraction about her.

"Yes?"

"Mlle Burnet?"

"I'm Jane Burnet, yes."

Poirot smiled disarmingly. "My name is Hercule Poirot," he said, "And this is my associate Captain Hastings."

"Of course, I'd almost forgotten. Do come in."

Miss Burnet ushered us through into the front sitting room. "Please, take a seat."

We both sat and, as she sat, Poirot began his questioning.

"Mademoiselle, I have read your account of your uncle's death and I have read the newspaper accounts." He shrugged apologetically. "_Eh bien_, if I am to be honest, I do not see that this death is anything more than suicide."

"But it can't be. It simply can't be."

"Why not?" I asked, taking on my assigned role.

She turned towards me, eyes imploring. "Because Uncle would never do such a thing. He went up to his room in high spirits and then less than ten minutes later I heard the gunshot."

"_Pardon_, he received no mail or a telephone call during that time?"

"No, nothing. In fact it was a telephone call that had put him in such high spirits."

"Do you know who this telephone call was from?"

She shook her head. "I'm afraid not. Uncle never discussed business with me."

"What kind of business was he in?" I asked.

She smiled. "I really don't know, Captain Hastings. We never discussed such things."

I nodded at her. "How did you come to live here?"

"My mother died shortly after I was born. My father died when I was eight. I came to live with my uncle then. He was my mother's brother and the only member of my family still alive." She smiled sadly. "It's just me now."

Poirot leant forward and took Miss Burnet's hand. "Mademoiselle, I promise to you that we will do all that we can to discover the truth of what happened to your uncle."

"Thank you, M. Poirot."

"And now, if we might see the site of the tragedy . . ."

"Of course." Miss Burnet stood and walked out into the hall. We followed. "It's up the stairs," she said.

We walked up to the first floor.

Miss Burnet opened a door and revealed yet another flight of stairs. "You'll forgive me, I'm sure, but I'd much rather not go up there."

"Of course," I said with what I hoped was a reassuring smile. I stepped forward and looked up the stairs then back at Poirot.

"_Courage, mon brave_," he said, eyes twinkling.

I began to climb.

* * *

><p>The room was small and cramped. Not the room I would have chosen as a study. There was a desk and chair, a filing cabinet and not much else.<p>

"There is something about this room?" asked Poirot.

I shook my head. "I don't know. It just seems wrong. There seems to be plenty of room downstairs. Why come up here?"

"Why, indeed. That, I think, may be our first clue."

"If you say so, Poirot."

He smiled briefly before crossing to the desk. He sat down facing me. "According to the reports, he was shot in the left side of his head, towards the back and at close range."

"Then he let the murderer in?"

Poirot threw up his hands. "If it was murder, then yes it would seem so, but perhaps it was suicide."

"Why would he commit suicide? His niece said he was in high spirits."

"Many suicides seem to have improved before they commit that final act. They have decided on a way out."

"But if you thought it were suicide, you wouldn't be here."

"_Eh bien_, there is something here. I have always believed in this so called 'feminine intuition'. It may be the Mlle Burnet has seen or heard something that seemed of no importance at the time, but that something has lead her to believe that her uncle was murdered."

"Yes, but what was it?"

He shrugged expansively. "That, I do not know. Not yet anyway." He looked down at the desk. "There must be something here that will tell us what we want to know."

As he rifled through the contents of the desk, I looked around the room again. I couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong. The room was too small, not just for use as an office, but also for the size of the building.

I went back downstairs and found Miss Burnet waiting on the landing.

"Have you found something?"

"Not yet," I said apologetically. "I wanted to ask if there's any other way up to your uncle's study."

"I . . . I don't know." She thought for a moment. "The ladder!"

"The ladder?"

"I don't remember exactly when, but uncle had a ladder put in – as a way out in case there was a fire. It goes from the back of the house to the sky light."

Sky light? I hadn't noticed any sky light. "Would you show me where this ladder is?"

"Of course."

We went down the stairs and Miss Burnet showed me around to the back of the house.

"Why did your uncle feel the need for a fire escape?"

She smiled. "He was always afraid of fire. I think he'd been in a fire when he was small. He said that having it their made him feel safer."

We had reached the bottom of the ladder.

I looked up at the house. It was a fair climb. It would need someone fit to get up there. I set my foot to the first rung.

"You're going up there?"

"Yes."

"Then . . . then you think that might be how someone got in?"

"There's only one way to find out," I said as I started to climb.

"Do be careful, Captain Hastings."

"Don't worry," I said with a smile. I fixed my eyes on the top of the ladder and set off in earnest. I flatter myself that I'm quite fit, but it was a difficult climb. I didn't think it would be much use as a fire escape.

I continued ever upwards. On finally reaching the top it occurred to me that I might not be able to gain access. I didn't understand why, but the skylight wasn't in the study so Poirot couldn't let me in. I looked through the window, but before I could take note of anything, the window itself caught my attention. There was a handle on the outside.

I turned it gingerly and to my surprise the window opened without protest.

I climbed in and closed the window behind me.

The room I now stood in was a bedroom of sorts. There was a large double bed and a single wardrobe and very little else.

Though it hadn't been apparent on the other side, there was indeed a connecting door between this room and the study.

I crossed the door and opened it, finding myself behind and to the left of the desk. Poirot was nowhere to be seen.

I walked across to the stairs, spotting Poirot only a few steps from the top.

"I think I know how the murderer got in," I called down.

"Hastings?" Poirot turned around, his surprise evident.

I smiled. "I came in through the roof."

"The roof?" He rushed back up the stairs. His eyes fell immediately on the open door. "Hastings, go back inside."

I did as I was told.

Poirot shut the door behind me. Not long after it opened again.

"It is clever this. The handle it is hidden. If I did not know that there was another room, I would hardly believe it. Now, let us see what M. Burnet was keeping secret."

He walked past me into the room. As he crossed the threshold, he paused slightly and I almost imagined that I heard him whisper '_dieu_'. He seemed back to his usual self almost immediately, though, and I thought nothing more of it.

"You got in through this window?"

"Yes. It was simple really – there's a handle on the outside."

Poirot turned towards me. "But how did you get onto the roof?"

"There's a ladder."

"A ladder?"

"Mmm. Miss Burnet said her uncle had it put in as a fire escape, though I don't think it would be much use as such. I imagine anyone trying to get out in a fire would choose the stairs, but Miss Burnet said her uncle was always worried about fires."

"A strange concern," said Poirot, crossing to the wardrobe.

"She said Burnet was in a fire as a child."

Poirot opened the wardrobe and took a look inside. I moved to look over his shoulder.

"Strange set of clothes," I said, rifling through the various shirts and trousers. "They're all different sizes, too. Must be for dressing up, something of that sort."

Poirot had gone back to the study. "Yes, it must be," he said, though I don't think he had really heard what I had said. "Come, Hastings, there are some questions I wish to ask Mlle Burnet."

"All right. We can ask her why this door is hidden."

He touched his hand to my arm. "No, Hastings. I think it would be best if we did not mention anything about this room to Mlle Burnet."

I frowned. "But, Poirot, why on Earth not?"

"I cannot explain everything," he snapped. "You must use your own little grey cells sometimes, Hastings."

I felt that that was uncalled for, but followed silently as Poirot went down to talk to Miss Burnet.

The first question, however, was one directed at me. "You made it into my uncle's study then?"

Before I could answer, Poirot spoke for me. "He did. Now, Mlle Burnet, you will permit that I ask you a question?"

She smiled. "Of course, M. Poirot."

Poirot beamed back at her. "Did your uncle know anyone with the initials DM?"

"DM? I'm not sure." She paused, considering the question. "There's David McLennan. He did some work for my uncle."

"Bon. And with the initials GK?"

"George Keith, another of my uncle's business connections."

"Do you know where I might find these men?"

"I don't, no. It would be in uncle's address book."

Poirot turned to me. "Would you go and get it for me, Hastings?"

"Of course," I said, my annoyance forgotten with the thrill of the hunt.

* * *

><p>"Where to now?" I asked after we had left Miss Burnet's house.<p>

Poirot looked at that great turnip watch of his and almost reflexively I looked at my own. Half past five.

"I think, _mon ami_, that we will go back to our lodgings and I will build a house of cards to help me think." He smiled beatifically. It really was impossible to stay mad at him.

"You don't want to question David McLennan or George Keith."

"Not tonight, Hastings. Tomorrow."

"If you say so," I said.

He smiled again. "Ah, _mon cher Hastings_, you are always so, how do you say, gung-ho?"

I laughed. "I suppose I am."

"But sometimes one must hold back, Hastings, and wait for things to fall into place. One cannot go off 'half-cock'."

We started back to the hotel. About half way there, I got up the courage to ask the question that was nagging at me.

"Look here, Poirot, why wouldn't you let me ask Miss Burnet about the other room?"

He looked at me for a long moment, and I thought that he was going to snap again. Instead, he said quietly, "If she does not already know, that we should not tell her."

I frowned and was about to ask him to explain when I realised he had walked on ahead. I would get nothing from him in this mood.


	2. Chapter 2

I awoke the next morning after a deep and surprisingly relaxing sleep. I remembered having woken in the night, but having returned to sleep almost immediately. I glanced at my watch and discovered it was well past nine.

I rose and dressed hastily. There would be trouble for this. But why hadn't Poirot woken me?

I pushed the thought to the back of my mind as I left my room and crossed the landing. I knocked on Poirot's door. There was no answer so I knocked again, louder this time. Still no answer.

"Poirot? You all right?" I tried the door and found that it was open.

Poirot was still in bed. What was even more surprising was that he was still asleep.

I crossed to the bed. "Poirot," I said, shaking his shoulder.

He started awake. As he recognised me he shut his eyes briefly. "Hastings."

"You feeling quite all right, old man?"

He smiled somewhat weakly. "Yes, Hastings, quite all right. What time is it?" he asked.

"Gone nine. But don't feel bad, I've only just woken up."

"_Sacré_." He pushed back the covers and sat up. "Go, Hastings, and partake of that _dégoutant_ English breakfast of yours. I will descend momentarily."

I laughed. "All right, Poirot." I left him to dress and went down to breakfast.

* * *

><p>I followed Poirot's instructions to the letter, taking the welcome chance of a full English breakfast; the man himself would never allow such a thing to be eaten in his home.<p>

Poirot joined me just as I was finishing my second cup of coffee. I smiled up at him as I poured his coffee.

"Thank you, Hastings," he said, taking the cup. "I do not suppose it would be possible to have croissants or perhaps brioche?"

"'Fraid not, Poirot. The best I can offer you is toast."

He shrugged philosophically. "Then I must make do with that."

After I had given the waitress Poirot's order, I turned to him and broached the subject that was most pressing to me. "Are you sure you're all right, Poirot? It's really not like you to sleep late, and I must say, you are looking a little green."

"I can assure you, Hastings, that I am not 'green'," he said with a little smile. "You must not concern yourself, my friend, perhaps it is that I tired myself yesterday and was in need of a little more rest."

"To aid the 'little grey cells', eh?"

"_Précisement_," he said and in that moment his toast arrived. He took it gratefully and it seemed to me that he considered the matter closed.

"What's the plan for today, then?"

He smiled fondly. "Ah, my dear Hastings, first we shall eat the breakfast. Nothing should be attempted until after that."

I imagine I let my annoyance show plainly, for he spoke again.

"We will visit Messieurs McLennan and Keith, Hastings, that is what we shall do."

We saw George Keith first. Burnet's address book gave a work address, which we soon found out was a garage. Keith was a fine looking young man, who I imagined was of an age with Miss Burnet. He was currently up to his elbows in the engine of a rather stunning Rolls Royce.

"Mr Burnet's car this," he said after Poirot had introduced himself.

"So it belongs now to Mlle Burnet."

"S'pose so. I never really thought about it."

"No," said Poirot carefully, "I did not think you had. Tell me, M. Keith, what was your business with M. Burnet?"

Keith leant against the bonnet. "I worked on his car. Sometimes I drove him places."

"Where?" I asked, tearing my eyes away from the Rolls.

He turned to me, and I could see at once he was much happier talking to me. Poirot does tend to have that effect on some people. "To London once, but mostly just round abouts."

Poirot glanced at me and I caught the message. "Do you know a man called David McClellan?"

"Aye," he said, "I know him. What about him."

"Well, what kind of business is he in?" I asked.

"He's a clerk with Lawson and Walters, the solicitors."

"Did he do business with Mr Burnet?"

"You'd have to ask him yourself, sir."

"One more question, M. Keith. In his diary, for the day of his death, M. Burnet made a note of the initials GK, I wonder if that might refer to you."

"I wouldn't know, sir," he said, but the question seemed to have startled him.

Poirot continued. "You would not perhaps have telephoned M. Burnet on the night of his death?"

"Telephoned him? No, sir, that wasn't me."

In spite of his nervousness, or perhaps because of it, I was inclined to believe him.

* * *

><p>As we walked up to the offices of Lawson and Walters, a strange thing happened to my friend. Poirot let out an odd sort of yelp and suddenly grabbed hold of my arm in order to keep his balance.<p>

"What is it?" I asked.

"My leg," he said rather unnecessarily. "_La crampe_."

"All right, old man," I said, taking a better hold of him. "Let's try and walk it off. That's it, put your weight on your heel."

"_Ça ne marche pas_," he said, the pain readily apparent in his voice.

"All right," I said, looking around us. There wasn't anywhere designed for sitting, but there was a short flight of steps up to a house. That would do. I had done this in far worse situations. Carefully, I set Poirot down. "Point your toes up," I said, kneeling next to him.

"_Comment_?"

"Your toes, Poirot, point them up."

He did as I said and as he did so, I took hold of his calf and started to work at the taught muscle.

"That better?" I asked after a moment.

"Yes, Hastings, I think it is. _Merci beaucoup_."

"Don't mention it," I said, standing. When he made to stand, I stopped him. "Just sit for a little while, Poirot, you don't want it knotting up on you again."

"_Mais non_." He looked up at me, head tilted to one side. "Where did you learn to do that?"

"In the army," I said lightly. "It really is amazing what one learns as an officer in His Majesty's service."

He smiled gently, before setting his cane firmly on the ground and starting to stand. I offered my arm and, after a moment's hesitation, he took it. I pulled him up and stood there for a moment undisturbed by thought or action.

"Shall we continue to the office of Messieurs Lawson and Walters?"

I let go of his arm. "Oh," I said, shaking my head, "Right, of course."

We continued on our way and after a short distance found ourselves in front of Lawson and Walters. Poirot led the way and it was over his shoulder that I first caught sight of David McLennan. I was struck at once by his resemblance to George Keith and from the way Poirot paused and titled his head towards me, I knew he was thinking the same thing.

"You are David McLennan, yes?"

The young man looked up. "Yes." He smiled in a guarded sort of way. "What can I do for you?"

"_Eh bien_, Monsieur, I am Hercule Poirot -"

"The detective?"

Poirot beamed, as he always does when someone recognises him. "_Oui, le détective_. This is my associate, Captain Hastings. We are investigating the death of M. James Burnet."

He frowned. "Then why are you talking to me? I hardly knew the man."

"But you did work for him," I said.

"No, sir, I didn't, not personally at any rate. Mr Lawson was his solicitor."

"His niece seemed to think you did," I said, feeling a little put out.

"I did have occasion to deliver some papers to Mr Burnet, perhaps that's what Miss Burnet was thinking about."

Poirot turned to me. "Of course, how simple it is." He smiled as he turned back to McLennan. "If you would just explain to me one thing, Monsieur."

"Certainly."

"How is it that M. Burnet had in his diary your initials written every fortnight?"

McLennan paled. "I don't know what you mean."

"I think you do," said Poirot softly. "Every second Friday the initials DM are written very neatly next to the date."

"I'm sorry, sir, I don't know anything about that. If you'll excuse me, I have work to do."

Poirot watched him for a moment, then turned and walked away.

* * *

><p>On the way back to the hotel, Poirot refused to answer any of my questions. My comment that they looked so alike that they could be brothers was greeted with an impatient wave of the hand and, "Of course they look alike, Hastings, that, after all, is the point." Though it certainly wasn't unprecedented, it still seemed a little unfair. When we got to the hotel, Poirot took out a pack of cards and started to build. I ignored him and set to my paper.<p>

It was almost an hour later when I finally looked up. Poirot's house of cards had fallen. He was regarding it with such a look of sadness that I was forced into speech.

"Penny for your thoughts?"

He looked up at me then muttered something in French under his breath.

"What was that, Poirot?"

"If only you were not you, it would be easier."

I bristled. "What does that mean? If only I wasn't me? Who else could I be?"

He smiled somewhat wistfully. "No one else, _mon ami_, that would not be possible."

"Then what do you mean?" I asked.

"It would be easier, Hastings, if you had not such a beautiful nature."

"Really, Poirot, this is beyond a joke. I have abroad in this world for many years and have survived to tell the tale. I have seen many shocking and horrifying things. You need not shield me from the world."

He observed me for some time, and I see now that my words had startled him. "Forgive me, my friend. I know that you have seen these things, but I would rather not be the one to show them to you."

I crossed to him and placing a hand on his shoulder said, "Tell me what you're thinking, Poirot." I smiled, "You never know, I might be able to help."

He chuckled softly. "_Alors_, I will tell to you the facts, and you will tell to me what you think."

"All right," I said, sitting down across the table from him.

"M. Burnet had a study on the top floor of his house, where his niece was unlikely to venture. Next to his study there is a bedroom – that is not so unusual, but this room is hidden and can be accessed from the outside."

"I don't see much can be drawn from that except that the man was secretive."

"_Bien sûr_. But there is more, Hastings. M. Burnet has in his diary the initials of two young men. Every Friday one of these initials appears next to the date."

I thought for a moment, then, quite suddenly I had an idea of what he was driving at. "You don't mean, Poirot . . ."

"I cannot know what you mean if you do not say it, Hastings," he said, without any trace of humour.

I took a breath. "You don't mean that he was having affairs with these young men?"

"Does that horrify you?"

"Only that they're so young." I didn't mention that I had no right to be horrified by such things, but it was certainly in my thoughts. "Is that what you meant?"

"_Non_. That is not what I meant."

"Oh," I said crestfallen.

When Poirot spoke next, he seemed to choose his words with excessive care. "That he was 'having affairs' with them, as you put it, would imply that the two men were willing partners."

It took a moment for Poirot's words to penetrate. "Good Lord!"

"Ah, Hastings," said Poirot with the barest hint of a smile, "I have shocked you, have I not?"

"Well, quite frankly, yes." I considered the point for a moment. "But how can you be sure?"

"I cannot. But there are certain signs in their manner."

"You mean that they were nervous?" He nodded. "But, Poirot, even if it had been consensual, it would still have been illegal."

"You are right, _mon ami_, but either way it would give these young men a motive."

As I watched my friend begin to rebuild his house of cards, the unwelcome thought occurred to me that it might also give Miss Burnet a motive.

* * *

><p>The next morning found me back at the garage. Poirot had taken on David McLennan, leaving me to deal with George Keith. I wasn't sure that I would able to get Keith to tell me anything, but it was certainly true that I would have more luck than Poirot.<p>

"I told you everything yesterday," said Keith the moment he saw me.

I waited until I was closer to him before speaking, "Are you sure about that?"

"Course I'm sure."

I held his gaze for a moment then turned to the car he was working on. "A Springer."

"Yes, sir," he said, looking at me suspiciously.

"I wonder . . . You wouldn't happen to rent cars, would you?"

He frowned. "Sometimes we do, yes."

"That sounds wonderful," I said with a smile. "What do you have?"

"The Springer," he said, inclining his head towards the car.

"Not quite what I'm looking for."

He watched me for a moment, as though trying to decide if I were really a customer or merely an annoyance.

"There's a Lagonda," he said finally. "Or a Rolls."

"That sounds more like it," I said warmly. He remained rooted to the spot. "Aren't you going to show them to me?"

"Of course," he said almost mechanically as he moved further into the garage.

I followed him carefully, thinking hard on how to approach him.

He showed me the Lagonda first.

"I drive one of these myself," I said. "Wonderful motor."

Keith stared at me for a moment. "Much better than the Springer," he said finally.

I smiled. "Yes. Except for the ignition of course."

"I didn't think the Lagonda's was that bad."

"Well, no, but the Springer has a much better ignition." I glanced at the car and then back at Keith. "But I don't think that's what I want either." I dropped my voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "I've always had this secret hankering for a Rolls."

"Who hasn't?" he asked with a slight smile. "She's this way."

The car he showed me was indeed a spectacular vehicle, better even that Burnet's. She was dark blue with a black roof and had been polished to within an inch of her life.

I let out a low whistle. "That's more like it. I would only want her for the day, you understand."

"Would you want a driver?"

"Oh, no," I said with a lazy grin.

He returned the gesture with a rather more cautious smile of his own. "That's really why you came in?" he asked. "It wasn't just to get me to tell you something?"

"Is there something to tell?" I asked.

He hesitated a moment. "No."

"All right," I said with a nod. "But if there is, just remember that people can respond in very different ways from what you expect. The older generation has seen a lot more than it lets on," I said, not feeling like the 'older generation', but knowing that to his mind I was. "Bear it in mind when I come back."

"Yes, sir."

"Good man. Now, let's see about this car."

* * *

><p>I pulled up outside the offices of Lawson and Walters and waited for Poirot to come out. When he finally did, I leapt out of the Rolls and opened the door for him. He glanced at me with a certain amount of merriment in his eyes before letting me help him into the car.<p>

I climbed into the front. "Where to?" I asked, watching him in the mirror.

He seemed inclined to indulge me. "Perhaps a drive into the countryside?"

"Of course."

As we started out of town, I spoke up, "What did you get from McLennan, Poirot?"

Suddenly he looked tired. "I think we should discuss this later, Hastings. Let us enjoy the drive."

I smiled at him. "All right, old man."

It was understandable that he wouldn't want to discuss it; it was hardly a pleasant topic of conversation.

"This is indeed most luxurious," he said much later.

"I thought you might like it," I said impishly. "And of course I've always wanted to drive one."

"And how does it fare, _mon cher_?"

"It's a little different from my old bus, but I could get used to it."

He smiled. "As could I, my friend."

We drove some little way before coming upon an old fashioned coaching inn. A glance at my watch showed that it was lunch time, so I suggested to Poirot that we stop in.

"_Une bonne idée_."

As we entered Poirot received some rather unfriendly looks which he dealt with in his usual manner: by smiling and being excessively polite. I sometimes think that that's what sets people on their guard – the men at any rate, most women find him charming.

The looks I received tended more towards the suspicious; what's an ordinary looking chap doing with a queer little foreigner? It doesn't bother me for my own sake, but rather for Poirot's.

In this instance the buzz seemed to have settled down by the time we received our meal.

Poirot look down at his steak and kidney pie rather doubtfully.

I laughed. "When we get back to London, we'll go to that new French place you were harping on about."

"I was not 'harping on', Hastings," he said with a mischievous little smile. "But it would be most agreeable to go there."

I grinned at him, then dug in.

* * *

><p>It wasn't until we had finished and were sat with a beer for me and a glass of wine for Poirot that we turned back to murder.<p>

"I learnt two things from M. McLennan," said Poirot. "The first is that he was involved with M. Burnet in some way. The second is that he is in love with Mlle Burnet."

"I say, that most be awkward."

He looked across at me. "That is certainly one way of putting, mon ami."

"Yes, all right, Poirot, that was an understatement." I took a sip of beer. "I wonder if she knew."

"About M. McLennan or M. Burnet?"

"Both."

"_Eh bien_, I suspect she knows about M. McLennan. I pray that she does not know about M. Burnet."

"'If she does not already know, that we should not tell her,'" I said softly. "You knew even then."

He shook his head. "I suspected – that is all."

"And you were right."

"How I wish I were not," he said sadly.

"I didn't get much out of Keith," I said with a sigh. "Though I might get more when I take the car back."

Poirot smiled slightly. "You think that you may have gained his trust?"

I frowned, "I wouldn't go that far."

"No, _mon cher_, you must not be discouraged. You have an air about you that makes people trust you."

"I do?" It had never occurred to me that people trusted me.

"_Mais oui_. It is why I say you have a beautiful nature, Hastings."

I felt the blush rise to my cheeks and was very grateful when he looked away. Being Poirot he couldn't resist a low chuckle at my expense.

"I think that we should speak again with Mlle Burnet."

"This afternoon?" I asked.

He considered. "No, I think it will wait until tomorrow." He smiled across at me, "And now, my good Hastings, we shall continue our drive."

"Right-oh." I settled our bill and we went out to the Rolls.

It was just as Poirot sat that the cramp struck him again.

"You're making a habit of this," I said, sitting on the floor of the Rolls.

"Make not _les bêtises_, Hastings, it does not suit you."

I couldn't help but grin as I took his calf. The muscle seemed to be knotted even tighter this time and it took some little time before Poirot got any relief.

I let my hand rest lightly on his trouser leg. "That any better?"

He closed his eyes, "Yes, Hastings, it is."

"Good show."

He leant forward and put a hand on my shoulder. "Thank you, _mon cher_."

I put my hand on top of his. "Don't mention it." It was then that I realised exactly how we were sat. Hardly fitting for two 'gentlemen'. For the second time that day, I felt myself blush.

Hastily I removed my hands and then got into the driver's seat. "Time to get on I think."

"Yes," said Poirot quietly. "I think it is." It seemed to me, however, that he was talking about something else entirely.


	3. Chapter 3

I dropped Poirot off at the hotel and continued on to the garage. As I pulled up, George Keith came out to me.

"How was it, sir?"

I jumped out of the car. "Wonderful. It's a pity I haven't the money to run one myself."

"Not many people do," he said, closing the car door carefully.

I watched him for a moment. "Was there anything you wanted to tell me?"

He glanced back at me. "I . . ."

It was clear there was something, but he seemed reluctant to talk. I took a look at the inside of the car. "Oh, look, my friend has left something in the back," I said rather loudly before opening the door and climbing in, gesturing for Keith to follow. He did. "Anything you tell me goes no further," I said, "Assuming you didn't kill Burnet that is, but I don't think you did."

"I didn't," he said.

"Then what is it?" He hesitated. "I know some of it," I said carefully. "I know that Burnet had a bedroom next to his study and I know that it's possible to get in through the roof."

Keith looked across at me. It was apparent that he was struggling. "You know what happened?" he asked, biting on his lip.

I sighed. "There are two options. The first is that you wanted it; the second is that he forced you. Which was it?"

"What – what if it could be both?"

I let out a low whistle. "You mean it began with him forcing you, but it changed?"

"I don't know. I don't know if I should be telling you this." He started out of the car, but I stopped him.

"Wait a minute. I think I know what you mean." I took a breath. "I think you mean that he forced you, but that you've found yourself drawn to other men."

His eyes widened. "How can you know that?"

I smiled, "You aren't the only man to have been drawn to other men, Keith. It isn't even as rare as you might think. But let me make it clear that what he did was wrong and that you were a victim. Now that doesn't make your feelings for other men wrong, not at all, that's something else entirely and you shouldn't feel ashamed of it."

He frowned. "But it's a sin, isn't it?"

"That's what some people say, yes, but as long as both parties agree – really agree – I can't see anything wrong with it."

As Keith watched me, I felt a thawing in his attitude and it came as no surprise when he started to speak.

* * *

><p>When I finally returned to the hotel I went first to the bar and then up to Poirot's room. I set a glass down in front of him before falling into an armchair.<p>

"Hastings?"

I smiled tiredly. "I brought you a drink."

"_Mais oui_, I can see that. What is it?"

I closed my eyes. "Tonic water. Good for cramps. You can have gin in it if you'd really like," I said, knowing full well Poirot's aversion to gin.

I heard him lift the glass and take a drink. "It is detestable, Hastings."

"I know, old man, but it works," I said, resting my head on my clenched fist.

Poirot took another drink, then commenced to watch me. "He told you something, M. Keith."

"He did. Though I wish to God he hadn't." I sighed. "No, that's not true. He had to tell someone, and I suppose it was best that it was me. I didn't tell him to go to church and repent his sins."

"Then it is true? He and M. Burnet were engaged in a liaison?"

"It wasn't consensual," I said flatly. "Burnet forced the boy – and he was a boy when it started. Fourteen. I don't understand it, Poirot, I simply don't. What – what pleasure could someone possibly derive from that?"

As he looked across at me I could see the emotion in his eyes and knew that he didn't understand either.

I sighed. "I presume that if Keith was forced so was McLennan."

"Which gives them motive."

"Keith didn't do it, Poirot, I'm sure of that."

"He made an impression on you, did he not, Hastings, young M. Keith."

"He didn't do it."

Poirot let out a soft sigh. "Then why was he so nervous, mon ami?"

I had told Keith I wouldn't tell anyone, but this was Poirot. "Keith was worried because he thinks he might homosexual."

"Because of this affair with M. Burnet?" asked Poirot with a frown.

I shook my head. "No. He's attracted to a close friend of his. He didn't want to be found out."

"This young friend does not have _la tendresse_ for M. Keith?"

"What? Oh. I don't think he's ever asked, Poirot."

"It is only in asking that one can know."

"I suppose," I said, pulling myself out of the chair. "I'm off to bed, Poirot, I'll see you in the morning."

Poirot smiled. "Most certainly, my friend. Sleep well."

"And you, old boy."

* * *

><p>I dreamt of Douglas that night. I hadn't done that in a very long time, but I don't suppose it was all that surprising. I dreamt about the last time I saw him; smiling a devil-may-care smile as he left the trench. He never came back.<p>

My dark musings were interrupted by Poirot and as we set off to Miss Burnet's, I let Douglas slip from my mind.

"I wish to speak with you, Mademoiselle," said Poirot as we entered, "And I wish to hear from you the truth."

She seemed a little taken aback. "Of course, M. Poirot."

"_Bon_," he said with a broad smile. He waited until we were sat in the drawing room before continuing. "Why did you call me here?"

"To find out what happened to my uncle, of course."

"There is no 'of course' about it, Mademoiselle," he said, fixing her with a piercing stare. "And I think that you are still lying to me." Suddenly he changed tack. "Tell me about M. David McLennan."

"David? I mean Mr McLennan? What about him?"

"You are aware that he is in love with you?"

In spite of the circumstances, a smile crossed her face making it even more pretty. "I wasn't quite sure."

Poirot too smiled. "_Oui, mon enfant_, he loves you very much." His face darkened, "Did he tell you, or did you already know?"

"I – I don't know what you mean."

"Come, Mademoiselle, you promised to tell to me the truth." He took her hand in his own. "I know," he said. "I know everything, so you need not fear to tell it to Papa Poirot."

"I knew," she said tearfully. "I knew."

"Good Lord," I said softly. "How did you find out?"

She turned towards me and I could see the tears in her eyes. "I went up to my uncle's study one evening. As I stood at the top of the stairs, I . . . heard something. At first I thought he was with a woman, but then David spoke." She sighed. "My uncle never knew that I knew. David did."

"And that was why you decided to kill him, _n'est-ce pas_?"

I snapped round to look at him, seeing only a deadly earnest in his face.

Miss Burnet sat up a little straighter and faced Poirot with an admirable resolve. "Yes, M. Poirot. Once I found out what he had been doing, I felt myself to have no other choice."

I admit that this was hard for me to comprehend. "You killed him?" She nodded. "Then why did you send for Poirot?"

"To protect herself, mon ami," said Poirot, turning to face me, "And to protect M. McLennan."

"I'm afraid I still don't understand. Why would calling you in protect her?"

"Because later when it became clear that Mlle Burnet and M. McLennan are involved, someone might suspect that M. Burnet's death had been more than suicide. An investigation would begin and certain things would be discovered. That would not do. So I am called in and I pronounce it to be suicide. Who then would dare challenge the authority of Hercule Poirot?" he asked gently.

"Now that you know, M. Poirot, what do you intend to do about it?"

He considered her carefully. "There is nothing I can do, Mademoiselle. I do not believe that you pulled the trigger, nor do I believe that you will tell me who did, even if I already know. If your uncle had done what he did to you, any jury in the land would find you innocent of the crime, but because he did these terrible things to a man it would not be so. That would not be _la justice_." He shook his head. "No, Mademoiselle, there is nothing for me to do."

She let out a sigh of relief. "Thank you, M. Poirot."

He smiled at her. "Do one thing for me, Mademoiselle, take care of him. Treat him well, for he has suffered much."

"I will, I promise."

* * *

><p>Several hours later that Poirot and I found ourselves in his room once again over a drink.<p>

"I'm still not sure I understand. You're saying that Miss Burnet killed him?"

He nodded. "_Oui_, that is what she says, though it would, I think, have been M. McLennan who fired the fatal shot."

"And she called you in to pronounce it a suicide so that no one would suspect?"

"Yes."

"Wasn't that a risk?"

"_Bien sûr_, but if the truth was suspected it would be even worse."

I considered a moment, before asking, "Then who 'phoned Burnet?"

"Ah, Hastings," he sighed softly. "If there was a telephone call, then it was from David McLennan. It may be that the whole affair was a lie."

"I don't like this, not one bit. There are too many lies here. The truth is cleaner."

"You do not approve of what I have done?" he asked.

"I don't know, Poirot," I said, shaking my head. "You were right of course, that if it had been done to her, she would go free, and because it was done to him things would be very different. To take this to trial would mean disgrace for Miss Burnet, McLennan and Keith, and that would be far from fair."

"But? Tell me what it is that troubles you."

I sighed. "It leaves a rather bad taste in the mouth, leaving it like this. Better to have it sorted and dealt with. As it stands it will hang over all three of them for the rest of their lives. They're the victims here, Poirot, and they've all been made to feel guilty."

"It is not fair," he said quietly.

"No. It isn't. I don't suppose that there's much we can do about that."

"I think we have done what we can, _mon cher_. You have spoken with M. Keith; I have spoken with M. McLennan and Mlle Burnet. We have left them as best we can."

I looked over at him. "That's as may be, but I wish we could have helped them more."

We finished our drinks in silence.

"Console yourself, _mon ami_," said Poirot as I made to leave, "Tomorrow we return to London and you need not concern yourself further with this matter."

But without knowing quite why, I knew that he was wrong: this wasn't over.

* * *

><p>We arrived back in London in the early afternoon. We both returned to the flat, but after I had divested myself of the luggage, I started out to my club claiming that I wanted to catch up with some friends of mine. In the strictest of senses it wasn't a lie, I did see some friends, but what I really wanted was a chance to think.<p>

I wanted to know why Poirot had leaped to the conclusions he had. I can accept that he often knows things that no one else does, but this was a step beyond that. He had suspected right from the start, and then there was his reaction to Burnet's room. I had jumped to the conclusion that Burnet was having affairs because of events from my past. It struck me that Poirot could have been doing exactly the same.

I didn't want to think about, but I felt I owed it to him. His actions during the case seemed to make more sense; his understanding of the situation; his plea to Miss Burnet to take care of McLennan; his tiredness on that second day; even his immediate willingness to break off pursuit. Poirot never talked about his past and perhaps this was an explanation. It might also explain why I wasn't the only one with disturbed sleep.

I didn't like the thought. I knew I could never approach him directly, that wouldn't work, but as I sat there deep in worry, an idea presented itself to me.

* * *

><p>It was just after 2 AM. I was beginning to think that I had been wrong when I heard him. He left his room and went into the bathroom. I heard the sound of running water and then a few moments later Poirot emerged. He came straight into the sitting room and, without troubling with the light, sat down on the settee. He hadn't noticed me.<p>

"Trouble sleeping?" I asked lightly.

He jumped, and I felt a twinge of guilt at my tactic. "Hastings?"

"It would hardly be anyone else, now would it?"

"No," he said.

"You didn't answer the question, Poirot."

He seemed to realise that something was wrong, but carried on anyway. "You had again _le cauchemar, mon ami_, I heard you. You woke me."

I shook my head. "No," I said sadly. "That isn't true. I haven't left this room since you went to bed."

He frowned. "_Comment_?"

"I was waiting for you."

"I do not understand."

I shut my eyes briefly. "Dammit, Poirot, I'm wise to you. I've – I've figured it out."

He stiffened. "_Comment_? How can this be? Hastings has 'figured' something out?" His voice was as harsh as I had ever heard it.

"I deserve that, I know. I have been rather dense, but you must admit that it was hardly something obvious and you are most adept at hiding things. You were happy to let me think that I disturbed your sleep."

Across the room I heard him swallow. "Forgive me, my friend."

We sat in silence until finally I spoke. "I came to the conclusion that Burnet was having affairs, because . . ." I broke off, but pressed on almost immediately. "Because I once had an affair with a man." I glanced across at him, but in the darkness I could not see his reaction. "It was the 'sensible' conclusion for me to draw. You thought straight away that Burnet was abusing them. There had to be a reason for that."

For the longest time neither of us spoke.

"An admirable deduction, Hastings," he said roughly.

I was suddenly glad of the darkness.

"Why did you never tell me?"

"How could I, Hastings? I could not know how you would react."

"Then you could at least have told me that you too suffered from nightmares."

"No," he said. "You may know, but you do not understand. You said that they had been made to feel guilty, but some of us are guilty."

"I don't believe that," I said.

"But it is so. I could not tell you, you who are so innocent, about the guilt that I bear."

"Dammit, Poirot," I swore. "I'm not as innocent as you think me."

I imagined I could hear his frown. "But your dreams, are they not of what was done to you?"

I let out a sort of chuckle. "Most days, I can cope with the dreams of what was done to me. Of what I suffered. Those dreams aren't the worst, Poirot, not by far." I took a deep breath. This needed to come out, no matter how difficult it was. "The worst dreams are the ones about what I've done."

He hesitated. "What you have done?"

"I was an officer in His Majesty's army, Poirot. I was a soldier. The worst dreams are the ones about the men I sent to their deaths . . . and about the men I killed." I heard a sharp intake of breath. "What did you think? That I went through the war without giving a single order or firing a single shot?"

He shook his head. "No, but when I think of you as a soldier, I think of Styles St Mary and that you were injured. I think of what was done to you. The suffering of the soldier."

"Yes, but the soldier suffers because someone makes him suffer. Someone wants him to suffer." I paused to let my words sink in. "I've come to terms with the fact that people I had never met were trying to kill me. I've never come to terms with the fact that I was trying to kill them, or that I was sending men under my command, men who trusted me with their lives, out to die. I never will, and I challenge any man to do so." I shook my head. "No, Poirot, this isn't about what was done to me, this is about what I have done. If either of us is guilty, it's me. Whatever happened to you wasn't your fault. That's what I told Keith, that's what I'm telling you."

He remained silent, head bowed in contemplation. Without thinking too much why, I got up from my chair and sat on the other end of the settee. Carefully, I stretched my hand out and let in rest in the space between us. "Who was he?" I asked softly.

He too stretched out his hand, leaving it so that our fingers were almost, but not quite, touching. "Adolphe Henri," he said at last. "My uncle."

Before I could stop myself, I said, "I never knew you had an uncle."

"You will understand, Hastings, that I do care to talk of him."

"Of course."

He glanced at the space between us, then looked up at me. "But perhaps it is time," he said, voice scarcely above a whisper. "I have never told you about my past," he began in a more ordinary tone. "My father, Jean-Pierre, was a police officer. He died when I was six. I do not remember much about him, except that he was always neatly dressed and had the most glorious moustaches."

I couldn't help but laugh. "They must run in the family."

"_Peut-être_." He paused for a moment before continuing. "The little ring I wear, it was his. In truth it is all that I have of him. After my father died, my mother, Margot, and I moved to live with my uncle. To begin with all was in order. I will not say that we were happy, _maman_ and I, but that was understandable." He paused and it was clear to me that he didn't want to continue.

"What happened?"

"One day, when I was ten, I came home from school to find that _maman_ was not there. He said that she was visiting a sick friend. He made _le déjeuner_ and then afterwards, he told me that I was old enough to learn a new game."

I started to reach out to him, but stopped short. To my surprise, he caught hold of my hand, gripping it so tightly that it hurt.

He went on haltingly, fighting to say the words. "When _maman_ came back the next day she thought that I was sick. I could not tell her what had happened. And so it continued until one day when I was thirteen and I could take it no more. I hit him and ran from the room. I ran out into the street and ran and ran. I do not know where I ended up, only that when I stopped it was cold and dark and that I was hungry."

"Your mother found out?"

He nodded. "_Oui_. At first she did not believe, but when finally she did we left the house immediately. I do not think that she ever spoke to him again."

We sat in silence, hands still tightly clasped.

"I'm sorry, Poirot," I said finally, but the words seemed inadequate.

"Now I have told you, my friend," he said, a mix of relief and trepidation in his voice. "What will you do?"

"Do? What is there for me to do, but try and help you? Though I will admit that I don't see how."

"Then you will not leave now that you know the truth?"

I gripped his hand tighter. "I won't leave, Poirot," I said, knowing that however irrational his fear seemed, it was real enough to him. "You have my word."

He returned the grip. "Then I have all that I need."


	4. Chapter 4

The next morning was a little uncomfortable for us both. We shared breakfast, but when Miss Lemon arrived, I excused myself from his company. He smiled up at me with such a mix of trust and trepidation that I almost wished I could stay, but it wasn't a betrayal, I would be coming back. I had meant what I said; I wouldn't leave him.

I spent much of the day in Hyde Park enjoying the unseasonal good weather. As I watched the steady stream of happy families, I thought back over what Poirot had told me. This new information, rather than making me wish to leave as Poirot feared, had served only to increase my respect for him. To have come through that and to have achieved all the things that he had done was remarkable. I only hoped that George Keith and David McLennan would do even half as well.

He hadn't pressed me on Douglas, but then he had been more than a little distracted. I expected that once his innate curiosity had a chance to reassert itself he would ask. And I would answer. I would answer any question he asked me just as I would do anything he asked of me. It was ludicrous to think of me leaving him. I would only do that if he demanded it of me and even then with the greatest reluctance.

* * *

><p>It was late afternoon by the time I returned to the flat. I went first into Miss Lemon's office.<p>

"Afternoon," I said brightly.

"Good afternoon, Captain," she said, looking up at me.

"Any letters for me?"

"Two," she said, handing them over to me. As I reached over for them, she pulled her hand back, eyebrows knotted into a frown.

"What is it? What's wrong?"

"You're up to something, aren't you?"

I stood straighter. "I don't know what you mean, Miss Lemon."

One eyebrow arched upwards. "I'm sure." She reached out the letters again.

Cautiously I took them. "Thank you."

"You're welcome." She looked at me for a moment longer. "Whatever it is, I hope it cheers Mr Poirot up."

I turned away from my study of the letters. "Oh?"

She glanced at the connecting glass then turned back to me. "He hasn't been himself today. Very quiet. Something's worrying him."

"I'll see what I can do," I said, before going into the sitting room.

Poirot was at the window looking out into the street.

"Looking for new clients?" I asked jokingly.

He half turned, but otherwise didn't acknowledge me.

"I didn't mean to be away so long," I said, taking a step closer. "I got caught up in some things."

He nodded curtly.

I took another step so that I was stood just behind his shoulder. Conscious that we were not alone, I dropped my voice to a whisper. "I meant what I said, Poirot. I'm afraid you're stuck with me. Come hell or high water."

A certain tension went out of him. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," I said, giving his hand a surreptitious squeeze. I moved to the other side of the window and leant against the wall. "I don't know if you're feeling up to it, but I got us reservations."

He looked across at me. "Reservations?"

"Don't you remember?" I asked, allowing a certain teasing to enter my tone. "I promised we'd go to that new French place."

A smile of pure delight crossed his features. "But, Hastings, that is most wonderful news."

I smiled back at him. "I thought you might say that."

* * *

><p>Chez Nous was an intimate little bistro in Soho. When we arrived the host, seeing in Poirot if not a fellow countryman at least someone with the same mother tongue, sat us at a table in the window and proceeded to find what he assured us was his best wine. He and Poirot talked a little before we ordered and then as our meal arrived he retreated gracefully to allow us privacy.<p>

Poirot looked down at a plate loaded with what I should not care to say and smiled. "Ah, Hastings, is this not the life? Fine wine, good food, and most excellent company." At the last he tipped his glass in my direction.

"It is pleasant," I said with a smile.

"Once again you exhibit a talent for understatement," he said, but the tone was affectionate.

"Well, you would hardly expect effusive praise from an English gentleman, now would you."

His face fell in such a comic manner that I couldn't help but laugh. "You English," he said, "Are all the same. Cold, unsympathetic." He glanced up and I caught the mischief in his eyes.

"And what about you Continentals?" I asked, trying for serious, but falling short. "Always so passionate and volatile?"

"And yet we make a match, do we not?"

"That we do," I said, clinking my glass against his. "That we do."

* * *

><p>It wasn't until after dinner a few nights later that Poirot asked about my past. He handed me a drink, then settled himself in an armchair.<p>

"I will understand, my dear Hastings, if you do not wish to speak of it, but I find that I should like to know what it was you meant. You had an affair with a man?"

"Yes," I said quietly.

"Forgive me, but why then do you live here and not with him?"

I studied my whisky. "He died. Though I don't know if it would have continued, or even if it could have." Finally I looked up at Poirot. "It was during the war, you see."

Poirot nodded sagely. "I understand. In war a man may act out of his nature."

"Perhaps," I said carefully. "I think it was like that for him." I suppose that was confession through omission. If it had surprised Poirot, he didn't show it.

"Who was he?"

In spite of myself I smiled. "Douglas James. We were lieutenants in the same company: The Honourable Artillery Company Infantry, B Company. We were Territorials, and when war came, most of us signed up for service overseas. As a lieutenant, I was given command of B Company's 2 Platoon. Douglas was 3 Platoon's subaltern. Douglas and I, well, it started after Bellewaarde in 1915. He died in 1917 at Miraumont. Not long after that I was wounded at Arras and sent home."

"_Mon pauvre Hastings_." He didn't need to say it - the sympathy was clear on his face.

I shrugged awkwardly. "I sometimes think it was better that way. I didn't remember much after Arras. The doctors said it was a form of amnesia. I didn't forget Douglas though. I don't think I would have gotten through without him." I paused for a moment, wondering if I should continue the story.

"There is something more?" asked Poirot gently.

I nodded, not meeting his eyes. "I started to remember through my dreams. Some things I knew, but didn't remember; by 1916 we had lost so many men that there weren't enough officers. I'd been with the Territorials since 1913 and that made me an 'experienced officer' so I was given command of B Company. At Miraumont, I sent Douglas out on a night run." I looked across at Poirot. "He never came back."

"And you blame yourself."

"Of course I do," I said harshly. "It was my fault."

Poirot shook his head. "It was war, my friend, you had your orders. What else could you have done?"

"I could have gone myself."

"And leave the rest of your men without a commander? That would not do, Hastings, and you know it."

I sighed. "I suppose you're right, and I do know it, but that doesn't make it any easier. I sometimes wish I had forgotten everything, but that wouldn't be right either. Those of us who came back have to remember."

He continued to watch me, but he didn't say anything, for there was nothing to say.

* * *

><p>It was exactly two weeks later that the letter arrived. I had been out most of the day working on one of Poirot's lesser known and to the man himself less interesting cases. I got back to the flat just as Miss Lemon was leaving. She told me about the letter then bade me good night.<p>

I opened it without looking at the postmark and started to read.

"Well, I'll be!"

Poirot came out from the sitting room. "Hastings?"

"It's from George Keith."

"_Eh bien_? What does it say?"

We went back into the room. "He says that he spoke to his friend," I said excitedly, "And that he, the friend that is, felt the same way."

Poirot positively beamed. "_Magnifique!_"

"I'll say! I never imagined he speak to the other fellow."

"But why not?"

"Well, I don't imagine that I'd ever have the courage to do it. What if the man had turned him down? And then told everyone?"

"But have you not done this before?"

"Douglas?" I couldn't help but blush. "Well, actually, he came on to me."

Poirot walked away from me. "So you would rather stand back then take the risk? I expected more from you."

I frowned, "What do you mean?"

He had his back to me now. "What if there was something so close that you could reach out and touch it? Would you stay your hand?"

I stood for a long moment without moving, just watching the stiffness in his back. Did he mean what I thought he did? "Poirot?"

Somewhat reluctantly he turned to face me. "It is only in asking that one can know," he said softly.

I shut my eyes. Strange behaviour was nothing new where Poirot was concerned, but this was different. He knew who I was, what I was. Could it be possible that he knew what I wanted? And wanted it himself?

I crossed to him and with my heart pounding in my chest, leant down to kiss him. It was a gentle kiss, undemanding, but there could be no mistaking it for anything other than the kiss of a lover.

As I pulled away, Poirot's hand snaked up and caught hold of my lapel.

I looked down at him and saw the tears in his eyes.

Carefully, gently, his hand moved higher and came to rest on my cheek.

"Oh, Hastings," he breathed.

Without another thought, I gathered the little man in my arms.

"It's all right," I whispered. "It'll be all right."

* * *

><p>It took far less time to adjust to this new aspect of our relationship than I had thought. We were discreet of course, though I think Miss Lemon might have guessed something. Not perhaps the whole truth, but even that wouldn't surprise me. We had already shared so many secrets that the new ones slipped almost unnoticed into our lives. Not that there weren't problems and the dreams kept on for both of us.<p>

One evening as we sat quietly reading, I put my arm around Poirot's shoulders and pulled him closer. He came willingly and we continued to read. Absently I rubbed my thumb over his cheek and then without thinking slipped it under his collar. Poirot had jumped away and it took quite some time for me to persuade him to accept even the most innocent of touches.

He had asked about Douglas too and about what we had done. Though embarrassed beyond belief I had answered as best I could. It seemed to me that Poirot had set his mind to this and would not be dissuaded.

It was into this tense, but not entirely uncomfortable atmosphere that the invitation arrived.

"Amazing really," I said, standing at the window behind Poirot's desk, "It seems to have worked out for all of them: Keith and his young man and now McLennan and Miss Burnet getting married."

"They are young, my friend, not old like you and I," he said, half in jest, half in earnest.

I smiled down at him fondly. "Are we going?"

"But of course. And we shall meet there perhaps George Keith and his young man."

"I hadn't really thought about that."

It was his turn to smile fondly. "He has much to thank you for, M. Keith."

"Yes, well, I have one or two things to thank _him_ for." I glanced at the connecting glass and seeing that Miss Lemon was hard at work reached out and touched his cheek.

He leaned in for a moment before I had to take my hand back. "Then we shall go, Hastings, and you and I may pay our respects."

* * *

><p>The wedding was a relatively quiet affair; I suppose they had wanted it that way. Miss Burnet – the future Mrs McLennan – looked spectacular in her dress. McLennan himself looked rather dashing in all his wedding finery.<p>

After the service we repaired to a country house hotel just outside of the town. Poirot and I waited patiently for our turn at the receiving line.

"M. Poirot! Captain Hastings!"

Mrs McLennan seemed genuinely pleased to see us.

"Madame," said Poirot with a grave bow. "You have made good your promise."

She smiled softly. "Yes, I have, haven't I? I really am grateful to you," her smile widened to include me, "To both of you, for all that you've done."

"_Pas du tout_."

As we turned to McLennan and it struck me that she had wanted us here, not him. I suppose given what we knew about him that shouldn't have been a surprise.

We made our congratulations and headed to find our table. I thought then that it was serendipity, though I did wonder later if it had been planned, but Poirot and I were sat at the same table as George Keith and his young man.

"Captain Hastings," said Keith as he stood to greet us.

"How are you?" I asked as we shook hands.

"Never better," he said and I think he meant it. "This is my friend Sidney Yates," he said, turning towards his companion. "This is the gentleman I told you about."

Yates smiled. "Thank you, Captain, for everything."

"Yes, well, you're welcome, I'm sure." I blustered on, "And thank you. You are both very brave. I hope that you see that."

The two smiled at each other.

"We see it, Captain," said Keith. "Don't worry about that."

* * *

><p>Poirot and I excused ourselves rather early. It seemed easier that way; we were after all a reminder of all that had happened. We went back to our own hotel. Poirot went up to his room and I paid a visit to the bar.<p>

When I went up to the room, Poirot was waiting for me. He took the drinks and set them down before pulling me close. Quick as a flash he undid my tie.

"Poirot?"

"It is has been crooked all evening, Hastings," he said in mild reproach. "How I have longed to set it straight."

I smiled down at him. "You are a queer little man, Poirot."

He puffed up comically. "I am." He took hold of my lapels then kissed me.

"Poirot," I said warningly, but he seemed not to notice.

He began by putting his hands under my jacket and then pushing it off. As he looked up at me, I saw determination writ clear upon his face. I was elated, but wished whole-heartedly that he had chosen a better time.

Before I had time to think, he had pulled me down into another kiss.

I caught his hands in my own and drew them up to my lips. I was loath to stop him, but there was nothing else I could do.

"We can't," I said, "Not here."

He looked up at me, then turned away sharply.

I reached out to him, but he didn't turn. "I want this," I said, voice dangerously low. "I do, but here the risk is too high." I stepped closer and wrapped him in an embrace. "It will have to wait," I whispered, "Until we are home and safe."

He turned in the embrace. "_Toujours practique_," he murmured.

I kissed him on the forehead. "_Toujours, mon cher_."

* * *

><p>When we returned to London the next day we went straight to the flat. Immediately we were there Poirot locked the door behind us.<p>

"We are safe now, and home," he said, turning to face me in the hall.

I looked down at him and saw that he was trembling. I took his hands in mine. "We needn't, Poirot, not so soon. Not if you aren't ready."

"I do not know that I will ever be 'ready'," he said quietly. "I do know that I want this."

"All right," I said with a smile. "But you're in control. I am entirely at your disposal."

He returned the smile, "My good Hastings."

"Let me make a suggestion first. Why don't we unpack, then we can order some food up and see where it goes from there? How does that sound?"

"_Bon_," he said, yet he made no move. Indeed he seemed most reluctant to do so.

"I'm not going anywhere, Poirot. I'll still be here when you get back."

He smiled again and after only a moment's hesitation went into his room.

* * *

><p>I suppose that the dinner sent up to us was more than adequate, but even the normally fussy Poirot paid it little attention.<p>

After we had finished, Poirot cleared away. When he came back in, he moved across to me before drawing me close.

It seemed to be a very long time before he kissed me. Even in that the tone was different: demanding, expectant.

He pulled away and I felt the lack of his closeness.

"I don't know if . . . I don't know that . . ."

I took a half step towards him. "It's all right, old man. If ever you want to stop, all you have to do is say."

He smiled up at me. "Thank you, Hastings." As I watched that same determined look came into his eyes. Suddenly he removed his jacket and in response I did the same. As he started on the buttons of his waistcoat, I moved to stop him.

"May I?" I asked softly.

A brief flash of fear struck him, but he was quick to suppress it. He nodded wordlessly.

With careful deliberation I unbuttoned his waistcoat. As he slipped it over his shoulders, I put a hand on either side of his face and kissed him.

When he pulled away this time it was to set his clothes neatly. I don't suppose I could have expected him to be happy with leaving them all over the place, not that I would have minded.

He came back and immediately set to work on my own waistcoat. His nimble fingers soon found their way to my shirt and with no more hesitation he removed them both. That left me with only a thin white vest. His hands found their way under the cloth and onto my bare skin.

"_Tu le permets?_"

"Oh, yes," I said, far beyond protestation.

With only a little help, he managed to remove the vest. After he had set it aside, he stood watching me for so long that I blushed under his open scrutiny. Hesitantly, he reached out and set his hand on my chest. I shivered at the feather light touch. He traced the faint scars that ran across my abdomen and I hissed.

"It pains you still?" he demanded.

I drew a breath. "No." I smiled at him, "It isn't pain."

His eyes widened comically, "Oh." A mischievous light came into his eyes. "Then I should continue?"

"It would be the only decent thing to do," I said gravely.

He kissed me then and I responded with an ardour that rather surprised him.

"When I said I wanted this, I meant with you, Poirot. I meant that I wanted you."

"_Oui, je sais, mais c'est difficile de comprendre._"

"Well, you bloody well better get on and _comprends_," I said softly.

"Yes," he said, hands coming to rest on the waistband of my trousers.

"Hold a minute, Poirot, I'm still wearing shoes."

He looked more than a little abashed, so I set to reassuring him.

"It's all right, old boy, it's not really something one thinks of." I sat down on the edge of the couch and took off my shoes and socks. "How about we even the score?" I asked, gesturing towards his shirt.

"Hastings," he said, the discomfort plain.

I took his hand. "It's all right, Poirot. Just as far as you are able. But," I said, standing, "May we at least take this somewhere better suited."

"Yes," he said with a sweet smile. "Yes."

He led me through to his room and I shut the door behind us.

"Safe," I whispered, leaning back against the door and pulling him towards me.

He smiled into the kiss. Unerringly he went back to my trousers and it was my turn to be hesitant.

"Look here, Poirot," I said, laying my hands atop his. "I'm not pretty. My leg's badly scarred – it's not very pleasant."

"That does not deter me, _mon cher_. Poirot too is scarred."

"If you're sure."

His only response was to unfasten my trousers and push them and my underwear to the floor.

I stood naked before him, my desire plain.

"_Mon cher ami_," he said, running a distracting hand over my wounded flank. "Say not that you are unpleasant to look upon, for it is not true."

"Come off it, old boy."

"It is as I say. Such fine lines," he said almost absently, continuing to explore the contours of my back and thighs before brushing his palm very gently across me.

I am not at all ashamed to admit that it took me some little time before I could respond coherently. "Let me see you," I said hoarsely. "Please, Poirot."

He stared at me before finally nodded. "_Bon_, but you must let me do it myself."

I nodded. "Would you like me to wait outside?"

"Stay."

I smiled warmly.

He turned away from me and began to undress. I tried not to watch, but it was impossible. His skin was so pale and looked so soft that I longed to reach out and touch it, but only if he would let me. The scarring he had mentioned was slight, though I knew the wound troubled him still.

He glanced over his shoulder then after only a moment's further hesitation turned to face me. I couldn't help but let my eyes range over him and was pleased to discover that he wanted this as much as I did.

Finally I rested my eyes back to his. "Thank you," I said softly, meaning it most fervently. I held out my hand to him and cautiously he took it, binding us together in touch.

A faint whimper escaped his lips, but as I made to release my grip he returned it with such a force that there could be no doubt as to his desires.

"Thank you," he murmured before leaning forward to kiss me.

* * *

><p>As evening turned into night, we did as lovers do. Afterwards, as we lay together, Poirot wept, head buried in my shoulder. I stroked his hair soothingly and he calmed. He insisted that we wash, not that I was entirely opposed to the idea, but I would gladly have stayed there, arms around him, murmuring sweet nonsense.<p>

He went first of course, and when I came out he stood in the corridor nervously waiting for me. I took his hand and waited for him to speak.

"You . . . you will stay with me?"

"I already said I would," I said softly.

"No, that is not what I mean." He looked down at the floor, then finally up at me. "I should like very much to wake up next to you."

My breath caught in my throat. "Oh, Poirot." I kissed him chastely. "So would I."

He smiled shyly then led us back into his room and his bed.

We lay there together the whole night through, and for the first time in what seemed like an eternity neither of us where visited by demons in our sleep and what dreams we dreamt were wholly pleasant ones.


End file.
